


ashes, ashes (we all fall down)

by aetervi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (kinda), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And since he’s a dragon he plans to repay it with fire and blood, Dark Jon Snow, Dragon! Jon Snow, Fluff, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Really it’s just him being more angry about being MURDERED, Warg Jon Snow, well really Jon’s not a Targaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28601163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aetervi/pseuds/aetervi
Summary: They stab him—how many times, he’s not exactly sure. As he bleeds out on the snow, the numerous cuts leaking red on white, he grits his face into a scowl, glaring at Thorne, even as his vision wavers, flickering black. He closes his eyes for the last time and swears vengeance—a rather odd thing from a child raised by Ned Stark. He asks for Fire and Blood.That is how he ends.They build a pyre for him, his lifeless eyes lacking the fire they had in life. They burn his body after Melisandre fails. They watch as he turns to ash. They miss when he rises from the ashes.For dragons do not burn. And who said the Prince That Was Promised needed to be—well, human?
Relationships: Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 52





	1. (prologue): fires of death bring life anew

**Author's Note:**

> Bonjour, welcome back! How are you doing? I’m procrastinating, so I’m posting this. 
> 
> Side note: I haven’t watched the show (only read the books) so any thing that hasn’t been covered in the books, is content that I asked my friend for. She’s honestly one of the reasons I haven’t watched the show. I don’t think I could take the disappointment that she says (read: screeches in anger) is Season 8.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy, and tell me what you think!

“For the Watch.”

He suspects the betrayal, but he does not expect it when it happens. They stab him—how many times, he’s not exactly sure. The pain wracks through his body, each knife only exacerbating his agony. 

As he bleeds out on the snow, the numerous cuts leaking red on white, he grits his face into a scowl, glaring at Thorne, even as his vision wavers, flickering black. He sees Thorne stare back at him impassively, eyes not betraying how he truly feels. And when they say it is for the best, when they tell him his life is a proper payment for what he has done in their eyes, the fire in his gaze burns as hot as it ever has. 

For there is a beast in his mind, shackled and tamed by months—no, years—of being told that whatever he does will never be enough, that _he_ will never be enough. He bares his teeth with the last of his strength, cursing in his mind. Hadn’t he done everything he could to save the Wildlings and the Watch? And this is how they repay him? Their own Lord Commander?

(There’s a snarl in his throat, a _heat_ at the back of his mouth, and the only thing that stops him from screaming in anger is the dizziness from his betrayal.)

He closes his eyes for the last time and swears vengeance—a rather odd thing from a child raised by Ned Stark. He swears for _Fire and Blood_. Fire, to help fight off the wights, a weapon beyond compare to save them all, even the traitors in his midst. He wishes for a fire so strong and bright that they may fight off the White Walkers, a flame so brilliant that all of humanity can be spared, no matter if they betrayed him.

(And then the _Blood_ of those who _dared_.)

For his anger runs deep, even as Ned Stark’s bastard. And this betrayal may have been the last straw. A growl rips out of his throat and it tapers off after a time, after he ceases to breathe.

On that day, Jon Snow dies.

(And a dragon is born.)

This is how he ends.

(But it has only just _begun_.)

* * *

Davos watches the men carry Jon Snow’s body to the already lit pyre. Melisandre looks as lost as he’s ever seen her, standing by the bonfire, staring into the flames with a lost expression on her face. He can understand why, of course. She’d tried to bring Snow back from the dead, like that other Red Priest, but he’d stayed as dead as he’d been before, even after the sacrifices and blood magic she’d tried to do.

Two Princes That Were Promised, both lost to her under her protection. Lord Stannis and Snow, both gone. It’s maddening and Davos has a mind to declare that this Azor Ahai nonsense is not a blessing, like Melisandre had chanted, but a curse on their lives. Good men, taken too soon.

He glances over at the black brothers, clad in their long black cloaks, who throw Jon into the raging fire. He stands vigil, Ghost by his side—he’d run from the traitors to get help when Jon had been stabbed—and watches as the fire consumes the former Lord Commander’s body.

He can hear the Red Priest chant something about fire and blood, but he pays her no mind. She’d promised to protect her Azor Ahai and she’d lost two. Frankly, he’d thought that her magic was touchy to begin with, but now it just seems useless.

He stands there for what feels like an hour, watching the flames devour Snow’s body, turning the shadow in the flames into powder in the wind, until all that’s left is ashes. The other black brothers start to leave, but he stays. He stays until Ghost nudges his hand and he snaps out of his trance and walks away. There’s much he has to do to prepare for the Long Night, after all. He can’t just stop and give up, no matter how much he wants to at times.

So he goes on.

_(He doesn’t notice Ghost, who—like his namesake—silently sneaks out of his room and creeps up to the pyre once nightfall has come. The white direwolf seems to shine in the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight. He noses a few of the branches away, taking care not to cover his muzzle in ash or soot.)_

_(And he most certainly doesn’t notice a newly hatched creature the color of dragonglass crawling out of the wreckage, dragging its small wings out of the rubble. The dragon stares at the wolf and ruby eyes meet crimson orbs. The wolf dips his head, as if trying to help the dragon up its mane. The dragon reaches up, grabs the fur and hoists himself up the wolf, settling down in the soft white tufts.)_

_(The dragon shifts, trying to find a comfortable position, inadvertently rubbing back soot and ash all over the snow white fur, and Ghost growls as a warning. Understanding the wolf’s annoyance, the dragon grabs onto two clumps of long fur, as if riding the wolf, and they leave Castle Black under the cover of moonlight.)_

_(Neither the wolf nor the dragon are there when the people wake at the next morn and they clean up the pyre, finding neither wolf nor dragon in their midst. A white wolf and a black dragon, gone in the night.)_

Davos doesn’t see Ghost again until three years later. When he does, it’s with the roles reversed. A dragon with a wolf on it. And oh, what a sight it makes!

A huge black beast, much like how he’d assumed Balerion the Black Dread would have looked as a hatchling, even bigger than Daenerys’ dragons, even Drogon. And perched on its head is a white wolf, with red eyes like glimmering gems, the animal howling as they land.

The dragon lets out a roar that seems to shake the world to its knees, flapping its wings and standing up on its hind legs. As it does, Davos can’t help but compare the beast to the Titan that guards Braavos, for it seems to the ex-smuggler that surely the winged terror must be just as tall if not taller as the guardian of the Sealord. The wolf—Ghost, he’d recognize that fur anywhere—howls in unison and the army he’s brought from Queen Daenerys stops in their tracks.

_(He’s not proud of having to bow down to the Dragon Queen, but it was kneel or burn. Not much of a choice that was. He’d tried to convince the Queen that she needed to take her dragons north to fight off the Long Night, but she’d scoffed and said that she needed her dragons in the capital to fight off the rebellions that keep popping up.)_

_(He’d understood but he hadn’t been happy about it. She doesn’t believe him and she thinks him mad enough that she won’t go and see the eternal cold the Others bring.)_

In their fear, one of the archers draws an arrow and fires. It impacts the dragon’s side and falls to the ground, having done no damage. The fire made flesh swerves its head to the man who drew his bow, and stares in silence. When the dragon does not roast him alive, another man, a different one, charges forward, sword in hand, screaming an incoherent war cry Davos can’t quite make out.

This one is immediately torched by dragon flame and eaten by the dragon. None of the others try to attack it again. Davos makes eye contact with the beast for a moment, and he swears he sees a glimmer of self-awareness, but he shrugs it off. There’s another dragon in Westeros, not under the Queen’s command. And judging from the looks of it, it seems to be on the Starks’ side. Regardless, another dragon in Westeros is a gamechanger.

(And they don’t just change the game.)

(They overturn the whole _damned_ board.)

* * *

For dragons care not for the troubles of men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Did you enjoy it? The next chapter would probably be Jon’s POV as he has to head with the mess that is turning into a dragon *jazz hands* and learning to survive in a world that either wants him docile or dead.
> 
> See you later! (maybe?)


	2. (I): the route to revolution pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better a bastard then a Bolton, a part of his mind hisses with no little venom. And besides, what is the stain of bastardy to a dragon? You should not care about the troubles of men, so why would you about how they feel? Take what you want with fire and blood. He tries not to listen to the voice, but it does make sense. He is a dragon now and when might makes right, what does bastardy mean?
> 
> For he has hated the Snow in his name for as long as he can remember, and it would be so easy to just shed the name and become Jon. And yet, he did not wish to become nobody, but he wished to be Jon Stark, so to shed his bastard name would be the opposite of what he wanted. So he’ll be Jon Snow for just a while longer.
> 
> (There’s a part of him that hisses in disbelief, for if he wants to style himself as Jon Stark, then who is there to stop him? He is a dragon, they should all bow.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! How are you doing? Here’s the next chapter—it’s a bit short, but whatever. The next chapter will probably be longer, so we’ll see how that plays out. Anyways, enjoy!

_C-cold! C-c-cold! It’s so cold!_

(When he fled past the wall, Bloodraven left something at Castle Black. He buried it in the dirt in the night and left in the morning, with Dark Sister by his side, never to be seen again. He had wanted to destroy it, but a moment of folly leads him to leave it behind in a place where he hopes no one will find it.)

_H-help? Anyone? W-where am I?_

(He leaves it under the executioner’s block, where deserters are killed. The blood of many men soaks the ground underneath, giving blood to the beast buried under. Now all that’s left is fire for the dragon to wake.)

_C-cold—n-no? It’s n-not as cold as it was before!_

(It rumbles underneath the ground, both frightened and awed by the heat. The flame almost seems to lick at its shell, and out of the flames crawls a dragon.)

Fire and Blood, **_Fire_ ** _and_ **_Blood_**.

(They break out of their shell, wings fluttering out. The dirt encompasses them in all their entirety, and they use their small claws to paw at the soil above them.)

_Help—Help! Help me!_

(Their scrabbling gets more frantic as their oxygen starts to run out—Bloodraven buried the egg deep within the ground since he hadn’t known if it would hatch—and in desperation, they stick their snout through the dirt and breathe a lick of fire. The dirt gives way, and the dragon emerges in an ocean of flame.)

_Warm. Not cold._

They flail around for a moment, trying to balance. The flames caress their sides, but it does not burn. **_They do not burn._ **

(But a dragon is not invincible, and a hatchling even less so. It only takes one part of the wooden pyre breaking and cracking, and a small beast is crushed underneath. The pyre rages on, uncaring of the dead man and the hurt dragon in the fire within.)

(They close their eyes—their shimmering gold eyes, twinkling in the fire. And the next time they open, it is crimson stained ones, like rippling pools of fresh blood, that have stared into the abyss. Have stared into the darkness and _lived_.)

(When the fire starts, there is only one man. And when the fire goes out and the men head in at night, there is only one dragon. For men can burn, but _dragons do_ **_not_**.)

* * *

He closes his eyes, bleeding out after being stabbed in the chest multiple times. He wakes up in a raging bonfire, covered in ashes. _His own ashes_.

He had known pain, from being murdered in the snow, stabbed numerous times. He had thought he’d gone through the worst—for what could be worse than _death_ itself? But this is something completely different. He wakes up in darkness, body screaming in pain. He’s cocooned in an embrace made of heat, hot but not burning. He tries to move an arm, but it’s pinned down under something, and when he tries to tug at it, it screams in pain. His legs flail around, and after gripping into the dirt underneath, he slowly pushes the board aside. 

By the time the wood moves far enough that he can escape, the warm caress has faded, and all he can feel is the chill of the cold. Not as bad as it was before, but still rather chilly. He glances up, pushing the rest of the plank to the side, to stare at Ghost. But his direwolf seems so much bigger than he’d been before. He reaches out to pet the albino, but in the corner of his eye, he sees not a human hand—but a black wing, with claws at the end.

In shock, he turns his claws around, flexing them as if to check whether the appendage is truly his. When they move as he asks them to, he freezes, mind still not having caught up to what has happened. As if on autopilot, he stares at Ghost, who has bowed his head, as if to say _get on_. He does as the direwolf says, not thinking until Ghost growls in warning when Jon fidgets too much, smearing soot and ash and wood all over the direwolf’s white coat.

He’s lost. Not directionally, but in the sense that he’s not sure what to do and where to go. Where does a baby dragon go to hide? It should be a place that’s remote enough to escape wary eyes, but not so remote that he can’t get there as a hatchling. Ideally, it should also have volcanic activity, seeing as it seemed that the dragons that grew up on Dragonstone were always bigger and stronger than the ones borne from the Red Keep.

_Where to, where to..._

A part of his mind whispers to him that _he’s taking this remarkably well, isn’t he_? And though he vehemently disagrees—he’s just holding in the breakdown, still in shock from his murder—he goes back to thinking. He’s not naive enough to dismiss the very real fact that he can’t ask anybody for help. At best, they might try to tame him.

At worst, they’d try to capture him and sell him to the Lannisters or maybe the Slavers in Slaver’s Bay to fight off the Targaryen.

(Oh, he’s aware there are fates _much_ worse than death. Being essentially turned into a mindless weapon forced to fight is only one of them. Perhaps a real dragon would be fine with it, but he is not a dragon, but a human lost in another body.)

Regardless, they can’t stay at Castle Black any longer. He’s certainly not going to head past the Wall—that seems like a bad idea for more than ten reasons. He tries to command Ghost to head out, to head south, but the only sound that comes out of his mouth—snout?—is a chuff, blowing soot all over his face. Blinking through the fog, he’s overcome with a sense of horror, and he knows it’s the shock setting in. He’d known that dragons couldn’t talk—but he can’t either?

In his breakdown, Ghost shrugs, as if rolling his eyes, and starts to run towards the exit. In their haste to try and choose a new Lord Commander—and burn the old one—the Black Brothers have left the gate slightly open. Not enough for a human to slip through, but just enough that Ghost can use his snout to nudge the crack open enough to slip through.

And so a wolf and a man-turned-dragon leave Castle Black.

It feels less like his life and more like the start of a rather odd jape, but he supposes the Gods are laughing at him from where they watch. It _would_ be oddly fitting.

* * *

Him and Ghost head down the Kingsroad for a while, at least until the sun starts to rise. By now, they’ve reached Mole’s Town and Ghost ducks through the undergrowth of the forest as they head into less travelled territory. The dawn has come, and the sun shines on his scales, still covered in ash and dirt, though he’s tried his best to groom them into a sight that is somewhat clean.

(Ghost running through bush after bush _after fucking bush_ doesn’t help either.)

The direwolf stops once they are deep within the forest, and the sun glimmers on the snow covered ground. A rumble comes from under him and Ghost sets him down to dash away in the woods. Jon can only sit there, waiting for Ghost to return—because he will return, he always comes back.

The albino wolf brings back a small hare, his snout stained red from the blood. It is only then that Jon notices the pangs of hunger that run through him, shifting his wings up and taking uneasy steps towards the prey. He snatches a leg, ripping it off using a talon—he hadn’t known they were _that_ sharp—and takes a bite.

And promptly spits it out and half-dashes towards the nearby tree to dry heave—it’s not like he’s eaten yet. He coughs for a moment, trying to catch his breath, when something seems like it’s coming up his throat. His gag reflex triggers, and he expects to be sick, but it’s something more—special.

Let’s just say that lighting a tree on fire is not the best way to be discreet.

(Well, _really_ , it was a _branch_ , but it started to spread. The look Ghost leveled at him before they left was almost impossibly unimpressed, annoyed that he hadn’t gotten more time to rest.)

* * *

Jon opens his eyes, unaware that he’d fallen asleep while travelling. He’s curled up in a ball—not on Ghost, but on a little ditch in the dirt, hastily made, with claw marks visible. Raising his head, he glances around the forest he’s in, the canopy sparse enough to let in the sky. He stands up on shaky hind legs, balancing as he tries to lift his wings out of the dirt. They’re a soot-covered mess at the moment and completely ash black.

They’re positively filthy, so the first thing he decides to do is look for a river or a stream nearby. He doesn’t see one from his position, so he turns to the tree behind him and sinks a claw into the malleable bark. He scampers up the trunk, repositioning himself once he finds a sturdy branch high enough up to see over the tree cover. There’s nothing to his left or right, but he can see a nearby clearing in front of him and he can see a dirt road behind, a worn trail that seems to be relatively unused over the years. 

He heads towards the clearing, gliding from branch to branch and then climbing back up to an acceptable height once he dips too low down. He’s careful not to make much sound or to head too high just in case he’s spotted.

(He could go on foot—or well, claw—but there’s a part of him that screams when he even bothers to think about it. _Vulnerable_ , it screeches, so he keeps as close to the skies as he dares.)

He perches on the tree nearest to the clearing, front and back talons finding purchase in the trunk as he twists his head to look at what the meadow entails. It’s a sparse plain covered in snow, with a few bushes here and there, and it looks like it’s been cleared for a reason. There are a few half-built buildings here and there, but they look decrepit and long abandoned by now, so he glides to the ground, half tripping over his own feet when he lands too fast and almost sending his snout into a pile of reeds. The pile of reeds in close proximity to the little pond nearby. There’s a thin layer of ice having formed at the surface, but he easily breaks through.

He sighs in relief when the water hits his skin, keeping his head out of the water while using his claws to dig out the filth and gunk stuck underneath his scales. He crawls out of the water, shuddering at the feeling of wet mud and snow in between the claws of his hind feet—he’s not putting his hands (front claws?) down in this weather. He shakes his head and wings to try and dry off, opening his eyes once finished. He turns back to the pool, glancing at his own reflection in the rippling water. 

His eyes are like little beads of blood—not as bright as Ghost’s eyes, but still red. There’s not much of a change in the color of his scales, but upon further inspection, it becomes clear that his scales shimmer and glimmer in the sunlight. His claws are like little dragonglass daggers and the tissue that connects his wings together is slightly translucent but is still mesmerizing, shifting in hue as he postures. There are a few bumps on the back of his head, like a miniature mountain range, for they have yet to grow out. He tries to run a claw over them as he tilts his head. The scales on his neck glisten in the sun, but when he pokes one, he can feel the softness and tenderness of what will one day become his strongest armor.

But not yet. For now, he’s still vulnerable, and the reminder that he can still be killed is unwelcome but not unappreciated. It’s just that dragons seem all-powerful, and to have his own mortality waved in his face makes him feel uneasy.

He’s about to turn back, to head back to the pit to wait for Ghost, when he hears a bark behind him.

(Jon won’t admit it, but him tripping and slipping in the mud and sliding back into the pool definitely happened. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.)

In his shock, he doesn’t start swimming up until a few seconds after he falls in. He holds his breath in the water and paddles up with his legs, folding his wings in lest they drag him down. Belatedly, he notices that even though his eyes are open, they don’t sting from the water’s contact. He blinks, noticing an odd feeling as he does. There’s a thin membrane over his eye that protects it from the environment, though he does notice that the sidelines of his vision are blurry while using it.

(Huh, that _is_ new.)

He has to restrain himself from biting Ghost in the leg when he realizes that the direwolf is responsible for his shock. To be fair, his companion does look rather sheepish about it, so when Ghost brings him a fresh rabbit, he burns it to a crisp—making sure to rip off a piece for Ghost beforehand, of course—and nibbles on it as they head on.

(He’s a forgiving man—dragon? And hungry. Mostly hungry.)

* * *

It’s been about two weeks or so since they’ve left the Wall. They head down towards Last Hearth, Jon aware that any stop risks being caught by Bolton men. From what he’s heard, the Lannisters have hostages from most of the Northern houses from the Red Wedding—but he’s not sure which are Stark supporters and which have switched of their own volition. News doesn’t travel well to the Night’s Watch, so he doesn’t know much about what’s happening past the Neck.

Regardless, the Umbers can’t be trusted at the moment.

Besides, he’s not heading any further south. While Dragonstone would probably be the ideal place for a dragon, it’s halfway across Westeros and a tiny dragon—though not _so_ tiny any more, he’s about the size of a small cat—with a direwolf are not the most inconspicuous sight to see. He could fly there once he’s grown more, but he certainly can’t leave Ghost behind and a day he spends unprotected is a day closer to getting caught. It only takes one man for the Boltons and the Lannisters to come down on his head, whether to chain him or to kill him.

Neither seems rather appealing, if you ask him.

Days and nights pass as Ghost pads to their destination, seemingly aware of where Jon wants to go. He travels sporadically, stopping at random intervals, only resting for as long as he needs, before starting again, running for as long as he can. They stay long in the woods near Last Hearth, heeding to steer clear of the main roads to avoid unwanted attention. 

They’d arrived at the ancestral seat of the Umbers a few days ago, and Jon wants to check the place out—are they Stark loyalists? Ghost lounges under a tree, nodding off as he flutters his wings. It’s instinct for him to take off—to fly high in the sky—something built into his blood, but he’d restrained himself from doing so for fear of being found. But now, in the dead of night, he sees no issue in doing so to check in inside the castle.

(Ghost should take the time to rest up, for their next destination is far more daunting than the Umbers. He pats him on the head, mindful of his claws. _Good boy_.)

He’d paced in the woods around the fort for the last few days, noticing that the watchmen were rarely there, if not there at all—probably because they don’t have many enemies any more, not after Hearthome and the Boltons. So he picks tonight, for the men are gone and the moon is new, so the land around him is dark and full of shadows.

And so he rolls on the forest floor to remove the shine of his black scales, and sets off. He tries to fly, and slips, falling into the mud below. Gliding is much different then flying, it does seem. He hadn’t assumed that it would be easy, but he feels a part of him positively buzzing in anticipation to take flight—to rule the skies. He succeeds on the fourth try, and he’s elated, both at the fact that dawn is definitely more than a few hours away and—the feeling of the air underneath his wings. 

It’s truly freeing, and he has to hold himself back from soaring higher and higher into the sky, lest he not return to the ground. But he compromises and lands on the roof of the highest watchtower when all eyes are off him—crouching low on the stone, eyes narrowed as he glances down at the courtyard.

The men don’t seem happy about the Boltons, but they aren’t vengeful or angry at first glance—and that’s the difference, for he can’t see pink Bolton sigils on any of the men. So this must be how they really think, for they are not being watched—or at least they don’t think that they’re being watched. They seem rather ambivalent about the Boltons taking over—neither satisfied nor displeased. They’ve just—given up caring, it seems. He skitters down the tower, making sure to hide from the windows, flinching each time his claws click on the stone.

He’s close enough by now to hear what the men are saying, but he can only catch snippets, losing words here and there.

_“Did ya hear—Stark bastard went—killed—brought wildings past—”_

_“No way it’s—daft bastard—dead?”_

_“The last son—the Ned killed—calling it the Mutiny at Castle—”_

He holds back a hiss as they talk about his death—though, he supposes he isn’t quite dead. His blood boils in a way that it never has as a man, and he can feel a hum at the back of his throat. He holds it on, swallowing it down, the feeling burning all the way down. It feels as though he’s eaten the sun, and it flickers in his gut appropriately.

(He doubts his fire is hot enough to melt stone like how the Black Dread burnt Harrenhal to the ground, but it is most _certainly_ not safe to release here, not if he wants to avoid suspicion, since _‘fire!’_ is a paltry explanation to a flame that burns several times hotter.)

He waits for an opportunity to fly off, and when the sentries have their back to him, that is just what he does. He’s not cocky enough to try and fish for more information deeper within the keep—he’d already died once, he sees no reason to risk it again for information that, at best, will not be relevant to him until he’s large enough to take on a castle.

(Oh—you didn’t think he was just _going to let_ the Boltons live in Winterfell, did you? He’s just well aware that he’s not big enough to take on the entire North—yet. But he has the patience for it—he’d learned the value of patience when he died the first time. So he _can_ and _will_ wait.)

(But no one would rally for a dragon’s claim, so he needs to find one of his siblings. Just the thought of it sends a pang of pain through his heart, but it is the least he can do, to take back the North to avenge the brothers he’s lost. Arya is missing, and the last he heard, Sansa is still in the capital. So now what?)

He flies back to Ghost, and on the next morn, they depart. Jon resolves to think about it while they travel—there must be a way to claim the North. It’s not exactly like he can do it, since he’s both a dragon and a bastard.

 _Better a bastard then a Bolton_ , a part of his mind hisses with no little venom. _And besides, what is the stain of bastardy to a dragon? You should not care about the troubles of men, so why would you about how they feel? Take what you want with fire and blood._ He tries not to listen to the voice, but it _does_ make sense. He is a dragon now and when might makes right, what does bastardy mean?

For he has hated the Snow in his name for as long as he can remember, and it would be so easy to just shed the name and become Jon. And yet, he did not wish to become nobody, but he wished to be Jon Stark, so to shed his bastard name would be the opposite of what he wanted. So he’ll be Jon Snow for just a while longer.

(There’s a part of him that hisses in disbelief, for if he wants to style himself as Jon Stark, then _who_ is there to stop him? He is a _dragon_ , they should all bow.)

He clears his mind and resolves not to think of it.

First they should head to their next stop, which should be their final waypoint before their destination. He’s almost certain they are not _overly_ friendly with their distant kin, but the Karstarks are worth checking out. Robb killing their liege lord does not do them any favors.

(He’s _pretty_ sure Karhold has ships that head to Skagos.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I’m back! Did ya enjoy the chapter? I hope you did! If you enjoyed, leave a kudos—a kudos a day makes my writer’s block go away! See you next week—or the week after!


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